


Dogmatic

by Synekdokee



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Catholic Guilt, Connor Deserves Happiness, Hand Jobs, Hand Kink, Human AU, Internalised Homophobia, M/M, Mentions of homophobia, Older Man/Younger Man, Priest AU, Religion, Virgin Connor, guilt complex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-14
Updated: 2018-12-14
Packaged: 2019-09-18 04:11:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16987815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Synekdokee/pseuds/Synekdokee
Summary: Father Anderson’s sermons have attracted more listeners than any of his predecessors. It had caused some controversy at first, his unorthodox style, but in the end what mattered was that people were filling the pews again.





	Dogmatic

**Author's Note:**

> Plutoandpersephone posted this idea on twitter, so I take no credit for the whole setup.

“Mr Stern, could I speak to you in the sacristy?”

Connor jolts, looking up from his discussion with Richard.

“Of course, Father,” Connor says, dread welling inside him, and he’s back in sunday school and about to get lectured.

Richard gives him a look, one eyebrow raised.

“It’s like you’re still 12 years old,” he sighs, leaving Connor standing alone in the isle as the congregation slowly trickles out of the church.

Father Anderson is waiting for him in the back, holding the heavy sacristy door for Connor to pass through.

Connor can smell the Father’s aftershave as he walks past him. It’s subtle - masculine but not showy. Appropriate for a man of God.

Which Connor is not. He sits awkwardly on the uncomfortable chair, and waits for Father Anderson to take a seat behind the heavy oak desk.

“Now - Connor, isn’t it?” The Father asks, giving Connor a - well, a fatherly smile. “You’re Richard’s twin.”

Ah, here we go, Connor thinks, grimacing internally.

“It’s alright, Father,” Connor says, standing up. “I’ve heard it before.”

Father Anderson raises his eyebrows. Connor sighs, spreading his palms out in defeat.

“I’m letting you down, I’m letting my brother down, I’m letting God down, I’m letting myself down-“ he takes a breath. “Who did I forget? Oh, right, I’m letting my parents do-“

“Connor,” Father Anderson interrupts him sternly. Connor swallows, slumping back into his seat. He stares at his hands, scraping at his cuticles mulishly.

“I have watched your attention wander during all of my sermons,” Father Anderson says quietly. “I admit, I’m not always a humble a man, but I believe it’s not due to the quality of my sermons.”

The corner of Connor’s mouth quirks up as he huffs out a breath, glancing at the Father under his brows. Father Anderson’s sermons have attracted more listeners than any of his predecessors. It had caused some controversy at first, his unorthodox style, but in the end what mattered was that people were filling the pews again.

His gaze falls on the Father’s hands, folded over the desk. Connor darts his eyes away, feeling a blush rise to his cheeks.

“I don’t understand,” Father Anderson continues. “Your brother is at the top of his class in seminary school. You’re barely scraping by. It pains me to see a mind like yours go to waste - but more than that I’m concerned about the state of your faith.”

Connor exhales through his nose, trying rein in his frustration. He lays his hand on the desk, beseeching.

“Father Anderson-“

“Call me Hank,” the Father says, reaching out to cover Connor’s hand with his. Comforting.

A shiver runs down Connor’s spine, and a heat begins to pool in his belly.

No. No, he’s past that, he’s stronger than that.

He jolts to his feet, pulling his hand away.

“I’m sorry, Father,” he says, voice rushed and panicked and he hates it, hates himself. “There’s something- I have to go, I’m sorry.”

He rushes out of the room, trying not to run, through the echoing hall of the church, and into the cold winter air. He doesn’t stop until he’s in his car, shivering without his coat, forgotten in the pew. He clenches his hands, nails digging into the flesh of his palms, willing away the wetness burning behind his eyelids.

Disappointment.

He fumbles out his rosary, stumbling over his thoughts as he counts the beads.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, voice thick with unshed tears.

There is no answer. There never is. Not for him.

 

That night he dreams of calloused hands on his hips, the scrape of a beard on his nipples, the heat of a mouth around his cock, and a voice, low and gravelly, whispering obscenities in his ear.

He wakes with a start, shaking, his boxers wet, and spends the next hour under the freezing cold shower until his lips turn blue and he can’t quite hold his limbs steady.

 

“Connor, would you help me with the garland,” Father Anderson says on the first Advent, after Connor has spent most of his sermon torn between staring at his large hands gripping the pulpit, his neatly trimmed beard, the way he’d occasionally tucked a stray strand of hair behind his ear. He has changed out of his cassock and into jeans and a flannel shirt, and he doesn’t look any less tempting for it.

“Of course, Father,” Connor says obediently, and tries to will his hands to stop shaking.

Richard gives him a curious look, but leaves without him, again.

“I told you, call me Hank,” the Father smiles, handing Connor a spool of fake fir garland. “At least when it’s just us two,” he adds with a wink, and Connor averts his eyes.

 

He’s constantly aware of Fa- Hank’s presence. He stays close to Connor, handing him wreaths and bells and ornaments, giving him pats on the back and shoulders when Connor strings them up obediently. Every time Connor can smell his scent, and every time he thinks about how it would feel to have those hands linger on him. To have Hank’s blue eyes look at him with something more than detached approval.

“Just a little bit to the left,” Hank murmurs, and Connor strains up on his toes, trying to hang the wreath just the way Hank wants it.

The ladder shifts, just so, but it unbalances Connor enough to tip him back. He overcorrects, his foot missing the lower step, and without as much as a gasp he falls, despite Hank’s hands grasping at him.

They end up in a heap on the floor, Hank groaning, Connor sprawled over him. Hank shifts, his thigh pressing up between Connor’s legs while Connor is still struggling to push himself up, trying to find somewhere to put his palms that isn’t Hank’s barreled chest, the girth of his belly or his broad shoulders.

Connor freezes, eyes closed, willing everything to go away.

“Connor?” Hank asks, tone worried, and Connor feels his body betray him again, his dick beginning to swell in his pants.

Hank grasps his shoulders, helping him up. “Are you hurt?” He asks, voice tender and low, and Connor lets out sob when Hank’s thigh, thick and strong, brushes against the swell of his crotch. He pushes himself away, stumbling back until his back hits the pews, slumping against them.

He feels nauseous, scared, too terrified to look at Hank. He knows what he’ll see - the same thing he’d seen on his parents’ faces, on their hometown priest’s face. Disgust and disappointment.

He hears Hank’s footsteps approach, and he looks up, holding his breath.

The concern on Hank’s face is almost worse. Connor draws in a breath, hitching and shuddering.

“It’s alright,” Hank says. Connor watches, frozen in place, as Hank reaches out one hand. It curls around the back of Connor’s neck, and his eyes flutter closed, lips parted around a vulnerable sound.

Hank pulls, and Connor goes, led like a sheep, and he finds himself wrapped in a warm embrace, pressed against Hank’s strong chest.

“It’s okay, kid,” Hank murmurs, and his voice reverberates against Connor. “Ain’t nothing wrong with you.”

Connor grits his teeth against the sob trying to push out of him, his fists pressed against Hank’s breast. Hank is wrong; Connor is - he runs through the words in his head like beads in his rosary - Degenerate. Deviant. Perverted. Sick. Wrong. Confused.

A disappointment.

He lifts his head, and his nose brushes against Hank’s throat. They both freeze, and Connor waits, counts the seconds.

Hank’s skin is barely inches from his lips.

It’s not him, that moves. It’s not _him_. He’s somewhere outside his body, watching himself tip his head forward, his own lips, pink and parted brush over the pulse-point at Hank’s neck.

“Connor-” Hank says, jolting back, and Connor nearly collapses, self-hate burning in him so hot he feels feverish. He grabs his coat and he runs, slamming the heavy church doors open, escaping into the dark. No one calls out after him.

The ground is covered in ice, and the ice is covered with snow.

He falls, his knees bruising as they slam into the hard ice, his coat falling somewhere in the cold snow next to him. He begins to cry, heavy, hopeless sobs welling from his core. Then the bile rises and he vomits next to his car, on his hands and knees in the snow, sobbing and retching, hoping that if he empties himself all the sin will leave too. And then he can be like Richard, pure and perfect and always in control.

His rosary is in his car, but he counts the beads in his head. He doesn’t apologise, anymore. He knows he’s beyond forgiveness.

He grabs a handful of snow and shoves it in his mouth and spits, trying to get the acrid taste out. His hands have gone numb and red with cold. He can barely feel his fingers when he wipes them across his cheeks.

He chokes out an anguished moan when he hears footsteps over snow.

Hank kneels down by his side and pulls him up on his knees and against him, until Connor’s chin is tucked over his shoulder. Connor shakes, from the cold maybe, or from the strain of being sick, or from despair over what lives inside him.

Hank shakes off his own coat and drapes it over Connor’s back, huddling him tighter against him.

“Let’s get you inside,” he says firmly, and Connor has no choice but to go.

Hank doesn’t lead him back into the church. There’s a side building, more modern, and Hank unlocks the door and leads him inside.

The apartment is small - a kitchenette, a living room, and two doors that Connor assumes lead to the bedroom and the bathroom.

Hank deposits him on the sofa, tucking him into the corner of it, coat bundled around him.

“Don’t move,” he says sternly, and moves to the stove, putting the kettle on.

Connor sits quietly, too numb and tired to be scared anymore. He watches Hank boil water, pour it into two cups, and add tea into them.

Connor worms his hands out from under the coat, accepting his mug mutely.

Hank sits down next to him, watching him. Finally he sighs.

“It’s the 21st century, Connor,” he says gently, a hint of weariness in his voice. “I think it’s time we let go of that Catholic guilt.”

Connor doesn’t laugh. He looks at his tea, the leaves bleeding brown into the water. His fingers begin tingling as the hot porcelain chases away the cold.

“There’s nothing wrong with you, kid,” Hank says, gripping Connor’s knee reassuringly. Connor stares at his hand, pale over the dark wool of the coat. Large and strong. He swallows, and takes a sip of his tea.

“What are you so scared of?” Hank asks, leaning close to peer at Connor. “Is it really God you’re so terrified of?” He leans back, tilting his head to one side. “Or perhaps more corporeal entities, a little closer by?” A smile plays at the corner of his lips, drawing Connor’s gaze. He can’t look away.

“Maybe you’re more scared of whatever drives your brother into his flawless brand of piety,” Hank sighs, and Connor jerks, staring at him in the eye.

“Richard-” he starts, but Hank gives him a sharp shake of his head.

“Richard’s faith is as panicked as yours,” he says, and then hesitates. “Maybe it’s not my place to talk about it,” he huffs. “Both of you are so busy looking for the specks in each other’s eyes you’ve missed the planks in your own,” he says dryly. Then he looks at Connor, gaze regarding. Connor ducks his head down, hiding his face. “Or maybe not.”

“God doesn’t give a fig about what your dick wants,” Hank says suddenly, voice so harsh it startles Connor. “I’m sure somewhere in your heart you know that. It wasn’t God who told you there’s something wrong with you, I bet.”

Connor shakes his head minutely, but it’s enough for Hank.

“Who was it? Your parents?”

Connor hesitates. “And my old priest. When I was growing up.”

Hank lets out a humourless laugh. “Men of God driving away the flock,” he says with disgust.

There’s a moment of quiet, Hank glaring at something past Connor, lost in thought. Connor watches him, intrigued. A small spark of happiness welling in him at being allowed to do so.

Hank is so handsome. Everything Connor wants to be and never will. If Connor could have half of Hank’s faith. Half of his goodness. And even as he thinks these things, he aches to feel Hank’s body against him again. Aches for his hands, his mouth, his cock.

He flushes, heat pooling between his legs again, and shame rising with it.

“Which passage was it,” Hank says suddenly, voice thoughtful. “That says, Only God can judge me?”

Connor stares at him. He clears his throat. “That was… Tupac.”

“So it was,” Hank says, smiling. “Wise words, don’t you think?”

“Is that what you believe?” Connor asks, cradling his mug in his palms.

“Does that matter?” Hank asks, raising his brow at Connor. “If I tell you that’s what I believe, will it wipe away the years of self-hate your parents and home church conditioned into you?”

Connor swallows around the lump in his throat. “I don’t know. Try?”

Hank laughs, shaking his head. A few strands fall loose from his ponytail. Another unconventional feature of his that the congregation had come to accept.

“Then, yes, it’s what I believe. No one on this God’s green Earth has the right to pass judgement on you, Connor. Not when it comes to matters that pertain only to yourself.”

“W-what if it doesn’t pertain just to myself? What if there’s-” he takes in a hiccuping breath. “Someone else.”

Hank blinks. “What I _mean_ is, as long as you’re not committing any crimes, no one else has the right to say shit about what you feel or do. Or who, for that matter,” he mutters. Then, with a deep breath he adds, “Look, Connor, it can be hard, even in today’s parishes, to balance faith and issues of sexuality, I understand-”

“How would you know?” Connor spits, regretting it immediately. But Hank doesn’t admonish him or get angry. Instead he levels Connor a look, mouth pursed into a thin line.

“Oh.” Connor says. “ _Oh_!”

“Knew you’re a sharp kid,” Hank drawls. He takes their empty mugs and rises to put them in the sink.

“I don’t want to go yet,” Connor blurts out quickly, sensing that Hank is about to suggest Connor go home.

Hank looks at him with a surprised look on his face.

“Well… I suppose you can stay a while longer,” he says reluctantly. “You were in a pretty rough shape out there.”

He takes the coat from Connor, handing him a woollen blanket to replace it with.

“Still cold?”

Connor nods miserably. At least his extremities have stopped feeling like they’re covered in needle pricks, but there’s a chill in his body that seems to run bone-deep.

“I’ll see if I can find some warm, dry clothes for you to wear,” Hank says, appraising Connor. He disappears through one of the closed doors, and Connor can hear him rummaging in the dark.

Connor’s footsteps are quiet, and Hank doesn’t notice him until Connor touches his shoulder. He feels Hank tense up under his palm, but he can’t stop now.

His hand trails down, joined by the other, until they separate and he wraps his arms around Hank’s waist, cheek pressed against his shoulder blade.

He feels Hank’s chest expand with the inhalation.

“Connor,” Hank says, voice low and gravelly.

“You said it doesn’t matter,” Connor whispers. “Just say you don’t want me.”

He hears Hank swallow. Warm hands cover his own, and pull them away from the swell of Hank’s stomach.

Connor bites back a sob, disappointment heavy in his chest.

Hank turns around, taking Connor’s wrists in his hand.

His other hand brushes Connor’s chin, tilting it up.

“Why me?” He asks, voice so soft it’s almost a whisper.

Connor looks at him in the eyes, willing him to understand.

“You’re-“ he hesitates. “You’re _everything_ , and you don’t even know,” he says desperately. “I dream of you, of your hands and your mouth and your voice and you-“ he chokes, squeezing his eyes shut.

He hears Hank’s steady breaths, and then he feels it fan over his face, before soft lips brush against his.

His knees buckle, relief flooding into him, light and warm. He throws his arms around Hank’s neck, deepening the kiss, tears streaming down his cheeks again.

“Hey, hey,” Hank cooes, brushing a thumb over Connor’s cheek. “No need for that.”

Connor nods, sniffling, and hugs Hank, blinking away the wetness in his eyes. Hank holds him back, strong and broad as an oak. Connor feels safe. He feels closer to God here in Hank’s arms than he ever has in the pews.

Hank guides him around, pushing him towards the bed, Connor climbing on it gingerly, on his hands and knees.

“Just tell me to stop, if you want,” Hank says, settling in behind him, over him. Connor nods, choking back a sob. He’s so grateful, so happy, he’ll do whatever Hank wants.

“You ever done this before?”

Connor shakes his head, staring at the sheets bunching up under his hands.

“Oh, Connor,” Hank sighs, tugging Connor up and around, settling on the bed with Connor in his lap, chest to back. Hank holds him, his lips brushing Connor’s temple, cradling Connor between his strong thighs.

“Have you let anyone touch you?”

“N-no. Not since- I was sixteen, and we got caught,” he stammers, more tears wetting his cheeks.

Hank mutters something under his breath. He holds Connor for a moment, squeezing him tight against him.

“What do you want?” He asks finally, rubbing at Connor’s thigh.

“I don’t know,” Connor whimpers, turning his face toward Hank, nuzzling at his beard. The scent of him is intoxicating.

“I want… Can you just touch me?” He asks shyly, and Hank grunts. “I like… I can’t stop thinking about your hands.”

He’s blushing furiously, heat spreading over his neck and cheeks, but Hank just hums. His hands go to Connor’s jeans, and Connor holds his breath as he watches those deft fingers undo his flies.

“Oh, God, Hank,” Connor pants, and Hank chuckles, nosing at his cheek.

“I think it’s just you and me here, now,” he says, and Connor sobs out a laugh. He can feel Hank’s arousal press against his lower back, and it makes his want more, want everything, knowing Hank is as turned on as he is. If Hank wants this, it can’t be wrong. Hank with his bold sermons, Hank who draws the congregation to him and to God.

Hank slides his hand inside Connor’s pants, and Connor jerks when the tips of his fingers brush over his erection, making his hips buck.

“Shh, take it easy, we’re just getting started,” Hank murmurs, soothing and sounding more confident than Connor has ever been in his entire life. He curls his hand around Connor, and Connor sobs loudly, hand shooting out to grip at Hank’s thick forearm.

“Please,” Connor whispers, and Hank kisses his cheek, beginning to move his hand slowly, his pace even and it’s the best thing Connor has ever felt. Hank’s hand is rough and warm, the dry slide a little bit painful, but it only drives Connor’s lust higher.

The problem with sin is this: you give in an inch and it swallows you whole.

“I want-” Connor starts, shoving at his jeans. “I want to see,” he says stubbornly, trying to push his clothing down.

Hank chuckles and pulls his hand away to help, guiding Connor’s hips up so they can push his jeans down. Connor kicks them off with a relieved sigh, and Hank pets his thighs.

“You need someone to take care of you, kid,” he says, rubbing gently at Connor’s slender leg. “You’re too skinny.”

Connor grunts noncommittally, taking Hank’s hand and trying to drag it back to his cock.

“Hold on now,” Hank laughs. “Let’s do this right.” He reaches in his bedside table, rummaging around. “Not like I do this a lot, myself,” he mumbles, and then pulls out a tin of vaseline.

“This’ll have to do,” he says, opening the tin one-handed, dipping his fingers in and finally taking Connor in his hand again.

It’s so much better this way, the slide of Hank’s grip smooth along his swollen flesh.

“Hank, Hank,” Connor chants, closing his eyes as he ruts into Hank’s touch.

“Not gonna last long, huh?” Hank chuckles, his lips brushing along the shell of Connor’s ear. “That’s alright. Bet it’s been a long time for you. Good boy like you, you don’t touch yourself, do you?”

Connor shakes his head frantically, and Hank laughs, but there’s nothing mocking about it.

“You try so hard,” Hank murmurs, his other hand resting on Connor’s belly, his thumb rubbing circles into the soft skin.

“Yet all you see are your failures. We don’t have to be perfect,” he says, his thumb stroking over the tip of Connor’s cock, making him tremble.

“Only God is perfect. We need to remain humble, and accept our faults.”

Connor nods, his breath coming in short bursts as he listens to Hank, tries to concentrate on his words through the haze of lust.

“Forgiveness, Connor,” Hank says pointedly. “Not just for others, but for yourself, too.”

“Yes, Father,” Connor says, unthinking. “Oh, no,” he whispers, but Hank laughs, the sound making his body shake against Connor’s.

“That’s all you want to be, isn’t it, Connor?” He asks, voice tender. “Just want to be a good boy.”

Shame burns inside him, but he can’t deny it. If he could make one of the three father figures in his life happy, any one of them, he could breathe free.

“You’re doing so well for me,” Hank croons, sliding his other hand down past Connor’s cock, cupping his balls before slipping further.

“No!” Connor cries, and Hank stills, fingers pressed against the inner swell of Connor’s buttock.

“No?” He asks. “Are you sure?” His index fingers caresses the soft skin, tempting.

“I- I don’t-” Connor bites his tongue, falling silent. He breathes, in and out, and then he parts his thighs, and Hank huffs a breath against his neck.

The fingers slide between his cheeks, brushing over his hole, and he tenses up, tightening himself.

“It’s alright,” Hank calms him, teasing at his hole. It feels so good, he didn’t realise he could be so sensitive there.

“You’re so sweet,” Hank breathes, and he gives Connor a firm stroke, pressing the pad of one finger against his opening at the same time.

Connor comes like a gunshot, unwarned and so intense he shouts out something that could be Hank’s name as he arches his back, his shoulders pinning Hank against the headboard of the bed.

Hank strokes him through it, milking his cock, his other hand rubbing gently up and down behind Connor’s balls, from his perineum to his hole.

Connor cries, trembling with aftershocks, and Hank keeps murmuring encouragements through it. Finally Connor whines, shifting uncomfortably, his spent dick sensitive. Hank draws his hands away, wiping the come over the sheets, and wraps his arms around Connor, holding him.

“You good, kid?” He asks, and Connor nods, numbly. His head is spinning, his mind racing along with his pulse. Guilt begins to crawl over him, heavy like tar.

“I don’t know,” Connor whispers, and Hank sighs, maneuvering them until Connor is lying on his back, Hank resting on his side next to him, still fully clothed. Hank pulls up a blanket to cover Connor, and tucks him close.

“I want to touch you,” Connor says, even though shame stills sits heavy on his chest.

“I think that can wait a little. You sound like you’re about to fall into pieces.”

Hank pets his hair, carding his fingers through it. Slowly the anxiety ebbs, tension draining out of Connor. He feels tired, exhausted in a way he hasn’t in a long time.

“Get some rest, kid,” Hank says, continuing to pet him. “We’ll talk more later. I’ll stay right here, I’ll make sure you won’t have nightmares.”

Connor smiles, turning to bury his face against Hank’s chest, inhaling his scent.

“Thank you Father,” he murmurs.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on:  
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/SynTurtle)  
> [Tumblr.](http://roomfullofcunts.tumblr.com/)  
> 


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